


Panacea

by Shousei



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Consensual Kink, Domestic Fluff, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote this listening to Mozart ngl, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, it's complicated - Freeform, what will you think of me now lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29569671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shousei/pseuds/Shousei
Summary: In which empathy and healing take forms not typically seen in the light of day.
Relationships: Undertaker (Kuroshitsuji)/Reader
Kudos: 9





	Panacea

Please note BEFORE reading:  
!Manga spoilers  
!NSFW  
!BDSM w/dub-con/non-con  
!Spicy fluff  
!Morgue kink ahoy  
!Complicated feels ahead  
!You have been warned

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

_Panacea._

I knew what kind of night it would turn out to be simply by the sounds that woke me: A distant opening and slamming of the shop door, the rough splintering of wood as he drew his scythe out of the air and decimated a coffin, which may or may not have held a body in our charge at that moment. I curled my knees up to my chest as I lay under the bedding, listening to my husband's rage take shape and sound in a way that stirred a faint tingling in my abdomen. It was rare that he was like this; I worried for him, wanting to share his burden. I... anticipated with dark and faintly guilty pleasure the form this process typically took.

He was often home at odd hours lately, owing to his personal involvement in a business of a nature I wasn't quite sure how I felt about, myself. However, his care and consideration of me—to say nothing of him catching me as I stumbled into the beginnings of reaperhood, as it were—took precedence in my heart as the reasons for returning to him the same sentiments a thousand times over.

I worried at the simple gold mourning ring on my left hand, spinning it on my finger and warming the tiny snippet of his hair curled into the crystalline compartment at its apex. It was not a marriage like my family or I had planned for, but thank God for that. We had each learned our need for the other to be close, to make time and space together in each other's existence...these things would not completely erase our losses, but instead, soothed them in a way that pushed the raw loneliness of them far away from our doorstep.

I had learned early on, though, that he could have moments such as these, where anger or frustration or pain had built up to a boiling point, and—having not had much in the way of company in whom to confide his specific hurts over his centuries—it took some goading to winnow it all out. I, in turn, learned the thrill of seeing him come undone under the pressure of his need to be in control of something, anything, when the foundations of his universe had somehow crumbled to dust. I myself needed him like this, to find use in me when there was nothing else, and to find me incomparable in my ability to draw the poison out from his veins.

Heavy footsteps then, as his boots crossed the shop floor toward our living quarters. I trained my chartreuse eyes on the bedroom door, not quite able to see it clearly without my spectacles, but certainly I heard it when it swung wildly open and banged into the wall behind. I held my breath, catching the fuzzy green flash of eyes that matched my own; they bore into the darkness, and I could see in my mind the shadowy scowl that accompanied them, always, when he came looking for me like this.

"Get up." The utterance was low, and dangerously quiet.

I pushed myself up onto an elbow to peer over at him, squinting. "Dearest, what happened?"

He answered in three strides to the bed, long, silver hair catching the faint lantern light in the room and swinging in tune with his steps. He towered over me, yanking the bedding up and away from me and grabbing me roughly about my bicep. He pulled me sideways and I grasped at whatever of his clothing I could grab as I fell over the side of the bed and onto the wooden floor.

The cold stung against my bare legs; my white sleeping gown was thin and did little more to protect the rest of me. He had tumbled downwards with me; I noticed that he had shed his overcoat and hat already, likely on his way through the shop. I muttered a curse at the ache in my arm and scrambled onto my hands and knees, but as I made to move away from him, he easily reached out to snatch my ankle and pulled me back towards him. My knees and palms raked across the wood, catching the rough bits where time and wear had taken their toll.

The pain stoked the kindling already smoldering in my core. "You retch, that HURTS!" I tried to kick my captive leg out of his grasp. "Why can't you just talk to me like a normal person?"

He tightened his grip, pushing me onto my back and yanking my leg up over his shoulder. "In case you haven't noticed, my love, I'm not a 'normal person'." I could not argue.

He leaned over me, his free hand deftly unfastening a few onyx buttons at the throat of his tunic. "And what about you?" His voice, deep and thick with the delirium he'd slipped into, dripped upon my ears like honey.

"What _about_ me?" I wriggled, trying to reach for a foot of the bed to pull myself away. He smirked and grabbed my other leg under my knee, hoisting it over his hip. I started at the teasing sensation of his nails drifting up the back of my thigh as he tilted his head, tongue darting over my scraped knee and planting soft kisses against the side of my calf as it rested on his shoulder. I was lost in the sensation of his nail tips arriving at the apex of my thigh, his hand turning to cup his palm under my buttock, when he sank his teeth into my leg.

I covered my mouth to keep him from enjoying my unfettered gasp of pain, although I knew my cheeks, dusted with warmth, plainly gave me away. "You," he grinned wickedly, digging his nails into my backside. "Why don't you do as you're told the first time?"

"Because," I replied, narrowing my eyes up at him. "You don't say 'please.'"  
I lifted my other leg from his hip to push into his face with the sole of my foot. I giggled as he fell back onto his rump, trying to cover his look of surprise with one of vehement ferocity.

_That's it. Sharpen those feelings into the edge of a knife; at least you'll know what to do with them then._

I had gotten to my feet, my lace hem fluttering back into place at my ankles as I scurried toward the door, when I felt him overtake me and loop an arm around my waist. He ignored my protests as he held me fast, languidly working the rest of his tunic buttons free with his other hand. He slipped his arm free from one sleeve before taking my neck into the crook of his elbow, and I pulled at it, gasping at the pressure on my trachea. He released my waist to shed the tunic from his other arm, and started plucking at the buttons of his pressed white shirt.

"Rude," he murmured simply, pausing to spin me to face him and slamming me back against the bedroom wall. One hand gathered my wrists, forcing them upwards and against the faded wallpaper. He ducked his face into the crook of my neck, and I shivered at the tickle of his nails as he pulled a fistful of cotton and lace up over my bare hip. I breathed in sharply at the sensation of his teeth along my throat, and tried my very best to stifle a moan as he brought one knee up between my thighs, pressing it into me. The metal of his boot buckles was frigid and lightly pinched at sensitive skin as he took his time grinding against me. I gasped at the tiny darts of pain that resulted, and lifted my own knee in an attempt to push him off. "Too...fast...please, darli—"

My panting pleas were interrupted by him stepping back and yanking me sharply towards him, still grasping my wrists. He freed them in favor of wrapping his fingers around my neck instead, his nail tips digging into the nape of my neck. He stared into my face, his eyes full of green and yellow hellfire. Today must have been exceptionally harsh for him to not pause at the terror in mine.

"Really, now...you can complain, but can you learn?"

He maintained his hold, setting himself in motion again. We exited the room; with him walking my neck through the doorway and down the hall, my body tripping along with it and unable to match the pace of his long legs. I reached one arm up and behind me to pull on his hair; he grabbed my hand and yanked my arm straight up and back, chuckling darkly when an audible hiss of pain burst between my teeth. "Such manners, and from one as high-born as you, milady...well, we can't have that, now can we?"

"'Milady,' he says, as he drags me around like one of his guests," I choked out snarkily, as I was forcibly marched out into the shop. The floor was freezing on my bare feet. I noticed bits of broken wood scattered around; fortunately, it seemed that nobody had been occupying the coffin at the moment of its ironic demise.

"Nonsense, my dear; you're dead, too, remember? And yet, accomplished enough for me to as easily have you waltz as walk." He paused in front of his desk, kicking the chair aside and releasing my neck in a ploy to have me slowly twirl under his hand.

"I need my spectacles." The room was spinning, more from the lack of sufficient air than from the pirouette. "I'm going to fall..."

"You won't be needing them." He declared as much, firmly, before shoving me forward over the top of his desk. Papers and an abandoned beaker of tea fell to the floor, but I found I couldn't pay this much mind when I felt him press himself against me from behind. I heard a soft whisper of cloth and craned my neck back; he had finished unbuttoning his shirt and was cuffing the sleeves halfway up his forearms. His scars shone in trails of feverish, rosy pearl over pale skin, his abdomen defined but still slightly soft, inviting my touch. I attempted to reach back again to brush my fingertips over him, but he roughly slammed my arm back flat on the desk. He leaned his chest over my back then, ghosting his lips over my ear.

"Oh no, it's my turn for right now, pretty."

I whimpered quietly, gasping lightly as I felt him pulling my gown hem up my legs. He pushed the cotton up to my waist, as far as it would go until my captivity against the desk surface blocked its progress. I felt him exhale, warm breath rolling over my exposed skin as he pushed my feet apart with the side of his boots. I squeaked in surprise and thrill, and made to shove my legs closed. He huffed, and then there was a shock of raw skin—his palm—slapping against my backside.

It hurt. It really did. I felt my eyes sting a little and lowered my forehead onto the wood. He heard me sniffling, and I felt his posture change. Warm skin settled onto mine, now with little in between, and I shuddered as he nipped at the back of my neck. His hair tickled my shoulders.

"Be a good girl, now..." he coaxed, again shuffling my feet apart. "Behave yourself, or you'll get that and more."

I whimpered something in response, pressing one cheek against the desk and letting the few tears that had escaped pool on the surface. His weight remained, pinning me under him as he tilted his face near mine to lick at the wetness gathering in the little valley where my nose met my cheekbone. "Tea later, but...this will do for now." I squirmed as I felt him shift, my right hand freed but useless in the position I found myself in. His nails whispered over the side of my ribs and waist, his fingers slowly disappearing below the desk's edge, gliding down below my navel, sensation rippling over my abdomen until they'd found what he sought.

I jolted against him, my head pushing back against his shoulder, my back arching in answer to the siren song he composed upon my flesh. I heard his breathing pick up speed; he seemed to be unable to resist the press of my hips into his own, and he had to check himself after unleashing a couple of violent thrusts against me. My abdomen pinched his errant hand against the desk, briefly, but it didn't seem to slow his ministrations, and he resumed biting and licking at my spine.

Chills tripped over my skin as I felt warmth building in my abdomen. I gave myself over to my need, and became determined to hold him to his responsibility for it. I moaned softly, my voice already shaky, and attempted to reach my hand back towards the fastener of his pants.

He moved quickly, pulling his hand back from below the desk to pin my upper arm down with his claw tips. He pressed hard, raking them down over my tricep and leaving burning trails behind. I pictured them appearing as they had in other moments such as these, raised and white on the skin as if surprised, before deepening into an angry ruby-red.

He flopped my now-limp wrist back from whence it came and grabbed a fistful of my hair. Pulling my head to the side, he sank his teeth into the edge of my jaw bone, below my ear. I shrieked, not shamming in the least. "You try that again," he warned.

I nodded my understanding as best I could while held fast by my hair, my eyes watering again with the throbbing in my jaw. I understood, indeed. _We're getting there_.

His fingers returned to their previous occupation as he released my hair, opting now to slip that hand under my ribs, beneath the bunched fabric, heedless of his nail tips scratching at me until he could tap and swirl the pads of his fingers over my nipple. He was calling me out, seeking all the vulnerabilities he had found in his previous explorations, and I couldn't help arching against him as waves of heat and desire for him became more pronounced and desperate. I heard a quiet, telltale groan from him, as he carried on with his tease, giving me a few light bumps from behind as he worked.

Then, he stopped. I was so frustratingly, ferociously close, and I whined under him as I felt the waves die down and recede. "No—" My protest was cut off by him suddenly resuming his touch, and I let him lead me back up to the edge until again, he stopped. This process repeated a couple of times, with me almost sobbing in anger at the lack of resolution. I knew it must be challenging for him as well; I felt his skin lightly dampened with sweat as he pressed himself down to nibble at my shoulder blade.

Finally, I decided to take advantage of his distraction, attempting again to snake my hand down below myself; I knew I could easily take care of what he was denying me if I could reach far enough.

This did not go over well, although it proved itself to be a worthwhile catalyst. He growled, standing up and yanking my body back against him so suddenly that the base of my skull rapped against his shoulder. I cried out at the sudden impact, but he ignored it, instead taking the opportunity to pull the cloth of my gown off my body, sliding it to my wrists and holding the bunch fast over my head so that I could not remove my hands. Gripping this with one hand, he wrapped his other arm around my ribs, digging his nails into the sensitive flesh over the bones.

"I did warn you," he breathed softly into my ear. I felt his heart beat against my back, made alive and feverish by his will as a reaper, and matching the frantic pace of my own. The tickle of his hair and breath against my ear and neck was making me crazy. He was a bit farther gone than I'd experienced previously, and I was getting painfully curious.

"Dearest, is it something...is _he_ all right?" I ventured.

His body seized up in response, before I felt his nails dig harder into my skin. _Bingo_.

He seemed to hesitate then, and although I could not see his face, I could sense the shudder of sorrow that passed over him. Quickly as it had come, though, he shoved it back, forcing himself—and me with him—against the sudden inertia to begin stumbling towards a different door in the rear of the shop.

He kicked the door open, and I shivered as a cold breeze of air wheezed forth from the darkness beyond. This was the door to the basement room in the earth below the street, a place colder than the shop itself and perfect for storing bodies whom, for whatever reason, needed a home between death and burial. I had been down here many times in our day-to-day routine, but never in such a situation.

He had released my wrists, yanking off the gown completely in a flourish and letting it drift to the floor before picking up a lantern that sat near the wall, still lit, having likely accompanied him home on his outing. I clutched at his forearm as he cinched his hold on me more tightly, lifting my feet from the floor just enough to haul me down the steps with him. I whimpered, frightened of being dropped, even if the body of a reaper could recover more easily from such traumas. Some human fears were hard to shake.

I heard his boots alight on the stone floor of the basement morgue, though, the lantern casting dim illumination over the familiar contents of the room as he roughly set it swinging on a hook on the wall. The room was mostly empty at the moment, as he'd not been home as much to tend to the departed; there was the equipment he used for both exploring and repairing the unfortunate dead, tools on a work table, containers and notebooks lining dusty shelves. Still grasping me about my chest, he marched me towards the steel dissection table he had acquired for working on "guests"; sometimes, these included those he would attempt to reanimate, and he had attached cuffs of leather to the table to restrict their predilection for violence.

I braced myself for the shock of cold metal against my bare back, but I couldn't keep from shrieking at the sensation as he roughly tossed me down on the table. I pulled my knees up to at least minimize the contact my legs had with the cold until I'd adjusted. Meanwhile, he was pulling my wrist to one upper corner of the table and making to fasten the leather restraint about it.

I lurched my arm away from his grasp, a bit unsure at first of the situation. This was not our bed; there were no lengths of cloth to soften the friction against my skin. He snatched my wrist back, holding it tightly as he opted to climb onto the table himself, pinning me down with his weight as he sat on my stomach, legs bent on either side. "Just..." he breathed quickly, but evenly, as though measuring his actions against his own willingness to carry them out. "Just do your duty properly, like...a _good_ wife."

I hadn't heard _that_ one before. My eyes burned with anger, and I knew they glowed menacingly up at him as they bore into his own. A shadow passed over his irises, some misgiving from within him. It was so close to the surface, but, maddeningly, no less trapped. He ducked his head then, hiding beneath his silver lashes as he dove to fasten my wrist in place. Having finished it, his hands slid slowly down my arm, lightly dragging his nails over the small muscles and curves as he went. His teeth grazed my bare nipple and sank into the flesh just above as he made his way towards my other hand.

I bit my lip, torn between enjoying his experimentation and worry over the wall he was building up, minute by minute, touch by touch. This process was usually one of healing for him, one through which he trusted me with, to receive the emotions he was fighting in their physical manifestation, and to seal them away under the force of my love for him and his well-being.

I stared at him, my thinking rampant and somewhat jumbled, as he'd sat up and was working both hands over my breasts, his eyes appearing to be seeing other things instead of what was in front of him. The release of these demons and these fears took forms other than this, of course, but the common denominator was my role as the cure-all, the living, breathing drug that banished the darkness and made him a tiny, safe world in which he could rest, however briefly. I had to do whatever was needed to fulfill that need for him.

And so, I made a fist of my free hand, and cuffed him across the face.

He shouted and fell back a bit, his weight shifting and a bit unstable on the table. I took the opportunity to frantically flail my free hand about near the table, finally slapping it against the edge of the rolling work-tray. He was trying to trap my arm as it wriggled, but I slid it away from him, having fished a cold, hard prize from amongst the items close at hand. I saw his eyes widen as he anticipated my impulse, his focus on me finally sharpening and shifting desperately from the dark thoughts he'd been entertaining.

In a flash, I had drawn the tool—a wickedly-curved cartilage knife—down the side of my throat. I'd been aiming for my pulse point but my control was understandably wobbly with our combined movements. I did not dig deep into my skin, but enough to feel it sear through the surface of the tissues, nerve endings already primed now screaming in horror. I gritted my teeth, hissing in pain at the feeling, and he took advantage of that to finally grab my wrist and shake the knife free. It went clattering off somewhere on the floor below, and I registered the flare of crimson covering my fingertips and dappling his own.

For a moment, he stilled, both of us staring at our paired hands. I heaved out air as quickly as I could take it in, watching him for the telltale signs I longed for.

His eyes drifted now, to look at the wound on my throat. I could feel the trickling of blood down the side of my neck; it was not a serious cut but certainly, the knife had performed its office most effectively. As if in a dream, he released my wrist and moved his hand to my neck, gently covering the wound with his palm. His shoulders fell, and he slowly arched his body down to meet mine, lightly pressing his other hand to my cheek. He rested his forehead on my chest, and I heard him whisper softly against my heart.

I had tentatively reached my bloodied hand to stroke his disheveled locks as they fell around us like a curtain. Some of the blood stained the silver, muted smudges in the dim lantern light. "What did you say, darling...?" I asked softly, my lips brushing his crown.

He lifted his face then to peer into mine. Glowing chartreuse rippled, his eyes filling up and overflowing onto his cheeks. "...Whitechapel."

 _Ah_.

I touched at his face, pulling tears away with my reddened fingertips. "Tell me."

He continued to hold his palm to my throat, and I presumed the bleeding had continued. His other hand shifted to grip my shoulder, his body lowering itself to rest on mine, his face hidden in my sternum again as he sobbed. "The blood...the collection," he began, tentatively, trying to create sense between waves of tears.

I lifted my head to peer at him, continuing to gently stroke his hair and shoulders. The pieces were coming together, the desperation, the unraveling at the sight of my free-flowing blood. "Where?"

He shook his head against my ribs, tears dripping down my waist. "A second place gone, now, and how will I keep him well? How will he live?" He wailed, then, a heartrending culmination of what had been stored away for who knew how many days, or years, or centuries. I never knew how far back it went in any given episode. I was determined to tie him to the moment, though.

"Please uncuff me, love," I asked.

He lifted his head, his teary face somewhat shielded by his hair, and obediently reached to unbuckle the restraint at my wrist. I in turn encircled my arms about him, pulling him close and kissing his face, his cheeks, his brow, holding him fast against me. He had removed his white shirt, gently wrapping it around my neck before sliding his hands beneath my shoulders and holding me as though he'd otherwise be thrown free of the Earth.

I kissed at his ear and whispered comforts into it. "It will work out, dearest, don't let it upset you...he will be all right with what you have for now. And," I held his face between my hands to look at him. "There were no places where you had set up collection to begin with, not until you established them. You can do it again."

He nodded slowly, then. He looked tired and a little lost, still. He tensed up, then, remembering something, and looking away somewhat in shame. "I'm sorry...what I said...you _are_ a good wife."

I smiled at him and drew him close, kissing him lightly. "I knew that."

He laughed softly at that, and my heart leapt at seeing him as himself again, unveiled and less lonely under the weight of his burdens. I felt then that this could not go unanswered, and I pressed my mouth to his more eagerly. He read my message, clearly, reciprocating for a moment before quickly sitting up.

"Wait...here? I know before it was...but...are you _sure_?" He looked adorably perplexed, and I giggled, pulling his shoulders back towards me.

"Why not? I did give the table a good scrubbing yesterday, because you never know."

He raised an eyebrow at me, smiling a crooked, curious smile. "You're crazy."

I snorted and pushed his hair back to kiss at his neck. "Would you be the pot or the kettle, then?"

He laughed aloud, and rubbed the remnant of his tears from the corner of his eye before reaching to tangle his fingers in my hair. Kisses more fervent, then, his desperation taking on a different and far more welcome tone. I gasped as he moved his attentions over my collarbone, careful not to disturb my neck, and drifted to my nipples. His tongue darted at them before he closed his lips over one, lightly sucking.

I had been at this place far longer than him by now, and although I always enjoyed it when he took his time, I felt that at this point I'd rather hurry things along. I'd been so close, and the memory of that peek over the cliff-edge was still eating at my nerves. I reached down to pull his hips toward me; this time, he grinned conspiratorially, letting me unfasten the clasps of his pants and ease them down from his abdomen. He positioned himself between my legs, stroking his nails lightly over my thighs as his eyes took in my form splayed out on the table. I bit my lip and reached to touch the braid of silver that hung from behind his ear. "Come here, then."

He himself was quite good at following orders. He slowly, torturously pushed himself in until our abdomens met, freeing a low moan and leaning over to kiss me. I pulled him into my arms again as he pulled my legs higher over his hips, trailing his hair back and forth over my chest as he thrust. I gasped with each fevered push, feeling myself inch up the table. He was warmth and breath against my ear; his low moans were punctuated with raw need as he pulled one of my legs to his shoulder and tilted his head back in the pure ecstasy the change in position had afforded. It would not be long for either of us, I knew; I burned anew, taking in the face of his pleasure, the pale curve of his buttock above the waist of his pants. The waves of heat returned, and crashed against me, and I willingly drowned myself in them. He followed me into the depths, hissing between his teeth in pleasure. Our moans echoed off the stone walls, each of us egging the other further on until at length, the tide ebbed, and we collapsed together in a sticky, sweaty wonderland of sweet euphoria. I noted with faint alarm that my head and shoulders had progressed to hang off the edge of the table, but he pulled me upwards to sit in his lap, still connected and my legs wrapped around his waist.

"...The _best_ wife," he smiled dreamily, holding my face and kissing me.

I chuckled, before softening my face to an expression of wistful content. I smoothed my palms over his hair and urged his face against my shoulder. He knew what I had anticipated in him, that the worries were still there, lurking, and he accepted my embrace as protection against them. I kissed his temple and traced my fingertips over the scars that trailed over his back.

"...Best husband." I murmured.

"Yeshmmph?" He responded promptly, his lips burrowed in his hair and my skin.

"A bath...and we'll discuss what to do? Or we won't."

"Mm."

Gingerly, we untangled ourselves, and he carefully gathered my bare form up to carry us to the bathroom. The ritual was, comfortingly, the same, except that we often changed roles. We'd share the warmth of the bath and each other. He'd bandage my wounds; we'd snug up in our bed. I'd comb my fingers through his hair and stroke his back, easing his soul to rest ahead of me as I had many times before.

Tonight, it was my turn to lay awake awhile longer, still hard at work, drifting between my love of all the things he was and felt, while thinking of ways to keep the grief that plagued him from swallowing us both.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

I feel many ways about the stuff in this one. As I've mentioned in other works, a lot of my writing is a vehicle for the processing of trauma and traumatic elements. Grief, pain and anxiety take many forms; they're not all "acceptable" but they all simply _are_. It feels complex in real life, and so it is on the page. I hope the explicit nature of this story doesn't overwhelm that idea from coming across. I don't usually write this sort of thing to this extreme, but it's cathartic for me at the moment.

The experiences depicted here might be uncomfortable for some, but I hope the subtle twist I added helps add to the "realness" of how this kind of relationship can evolve. Who was really in charge to start with? Both, or neither? Poor planning in terms of BDSM etiquette, but again, as messy as human intimacy can be when tangled up with other human sentiments. It's raw and it's scary, but when you're in something together, wholeheartedly, it's somehow less daunting.

A note about the "morgue": in the Victorian era, bodies usually remained at the home where the person had passed until the undertaker brought the coffin there; a period of visitation would follow and the funeral proceeded after. The undertaker DID make the coffins and perform the other services of burial, but they were usually carpenters who did these tasks on top of their regular work (hence the name "undertaker"). I figured, though, that given the manga storyline, U. does keep a place for bodies, and might have anyway if the victims were homeless, criminals, or otherwise stuck without a place to be prepared for burial.

Thank you for reading!


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